Epiphany
by EmilineHarris
Summary: Before he dies, Dallas is given the opportunity to see how things would have been in Tulsa had he never left New York City.
1. Blinded

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Outsiders_ or Dallas Winston. They belong to the great S.E. Hinton ... I just like to borrow them from time to time:)

* * *

Dally skidded to a halt under the streetlight, gun raised in silent hopelessness_. Dammit, Johnny!_ He thought. _Why did you have to die!_

The cops swarmed from their cars like bees. "Put the gun down!"

Dally licked his lips and did not flinch, his icy blue eyes darting from one officer to the next. He knew what he was doing. He knew what he wanted. And even as the first shots were fired into the cool night air he felt no regret. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Johnny's death was the most horrible thing that had ever happened to him—and what was coming couldn't be much worse.

When his eyes flickered back open moments later, he was surprised to see that nothing had changed.

Well, _something_ was different. He was still on his feet under the streetlight and—about a foot away from his chest—a bullet was frozen in mid-air. He reached out his left hand and touched it while keeping a firm grip on the gun with his right. The bullet was still hot from being shot out of the chamber, he was sure of it. But it was right _there_, hovering just seconds away from its deadly destination. He slowly dropped his right arm, the arm that was holding the gun, and took a cautious look around. The lights from the police cars weren't spinning anymore, just casting stationary blue and red spotlights in either direction. An eerie puff of faint smoke hovered around the policemen's guns, proof that more bullets had been fired and were on their way.

"What the hell?" Dally mumbled out loud, growing confused—something definitely wasn't right here. He was supposed to be dead.

He turned around and could see the gang, the length of the lot away, frozen in a race that they would never win. Ponyboy was out front, locked in a sprint, mouth open calling something out. The rest of the guys weren't far behind, worry and fear marked across their faces, and some of them seemed to be yelling too. They looked sick and defeated, and for a moment he wished that they weren't there at all. They had only come because of him, he knew. He had called the Curtis house in case he wanted to back down, but that had never been his style—at least now he'd have an audience.

It hadn't even been an hour since they were all rumbling against the Socs. in this very lot, but only an hour ago things had been dramatically different. Johnny had been alive.

Johnny…

Dally closed his eyes again and was jolted by a voice. "Dallas," it said.

Dallas quickly looked around again. The only things in sight were the cops, the bullet, and his friends, all frozen in time.

"Dallas," it said again. It almost sounded like a child.

"What?" He shouted out. Was this God talking to him? Satan maybe? He didn't believe in either of them.

"Dallas, over here."

Dally looked around again, seeing nobody. "What?" He called again. "Where are you?"

"In the light," the voice said soothingly.

Dally looked up above him. The bulb from the streetlight cast a bright glow down upon him, blinding his vision. He couldn't see anything—or anyone for that matter. He shielded his eyes with the hand that was still holding the unloaded gun. "I don't see you," he said stubbornly. "What the hell is going on here? Who the hell are you?"

"I'm a friend," the voice replied. "And I'm here to give you a glimpse."

"Oh yeah? Well, you can take your glimpse and shove it!" Dally hissed.

There was a slight hesitation and then the voice spoke again. "You weren't always this way, you know—so downtrodden and angry. You used to be different. You used to be happy…"

"That was a long time ago," Dally muttered, "and this is how I am right now. So just let things end the way I planned for them too. Just let those cops send me packing…"

"I will, in good time," the voice replied calmly. "But there is something left that you must see before you go. Although you seem very steadfast in your decision, I can tell that you still have some doubts—that there are some questions in your mind."

"Like what?" Dally asked contemptuously. No unseen entity was going to stop him from doing exactly what he wanted.

"I can see that you are uncertain as to why you came to Tulsa at all. Your father certainly didn't want you here, and you have only caused yourself and many of those around you heartache and trouble…"

Dally narrowed his eyes. "Is that so?"

"That's what you think, not what I think," the voice replied simply. "I _know_ that you have done much more than you think you have."

Dally made a snorting sound. "Oh, really? Well thank you for making me feel better," he replied sarcastically.

The voice let out a muffled chuckle. "You may not believe it now, but you'll see," it replied. "You'll see that there's good in the world and that you actually contributed to it."

_Good in the world. Who is this guy kidding?_ Dally thought. He was getting more and more angry with each minute that passed. He knew, firsthand, that there was no good in the world. Johnny had thought so, and look at what happened to him. He was raised in a loveless home, got beaten by his old man for no reason at all, and was killed because he felt the need to go and save people. No, not people, little _kids_. He died because he tried to save sniveling, runny-nosed brats.

Dally laughed to himself. "I didn't contribute to squat," he finally shouted. It almost felt good saying it. He was worthless—his life didn't mean anything. Once he was gone, no one would even give him a second thought. He wasn't the "hero" the paper proclaimed him to be. He was a hood, a JD, a delinquent, and that's how he liked it. No attachments, no commitments—get tough and nothing can touch you.

But he had been touched. He had actually let his guard down and _cared_ for someone else. Cared for them with his whole _heart_. The realization made him sick.

"Dallas…" The voice paused, hesitating before breaking into his thoughts. "How about that glimpse?"

"I told you, I don't need any blasted glimpse!" Dally exclaimed.

"But you do. You need to see how things would have been without you. You need to see that the world is inherently good and that you're a part of that goodness."

"What part of 'no' don't you understand?" Dally replied angrily. "I don't have time for your wishy-washy preaching. Just go away and let that bullet get to me. Let me finish what I started."

The voice did not respond.

Dally nodded smugly. He sure had showed him—whoever he was. No one messed with Dallas Winston and lived to tell about it! As he slowly turned his body back toward the policemen and their guns, prepared to end it all, he took notice of his friends again. If he had been anyone else, the looks on their faces would have made him feel sad, maybe even guilty. He hadn't shown it most of the time, but they were probably the best group of guys he ever hung around with…

He remembered the day he left New York…

It was the end of summer. He had been ten, almost eleven. He had just gotten out of jail—not juvenile hall like other kids his age—and his mother had put him on the first train to Tulsa.

She was sick of him—sick of his rap sheet and the trouble that he always found himself in. Sick of everything about him. It wasn't his fault, really. She was never around and he had been absorbed into the neighborhood gang that got their kicks from making everyone else miserable. Maybe if she had been there, if she had cared a little bit more, things would have turned out differently, but she never had liked being a mother. He guessed it was the price a woman paid for getting knocked up early in life and not wanting a baby in the first place…

So there he was, alone and headed to a new town, in a new state—to live with a father that he had only known by name. He would have crumbled too—like any other ten-year-old kid—if it hadn't been for his years of training on the New York streets and that last spell in jail. While it had probably saved his life and made him stronger, he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Jail wasn't the place to get your kicks.

When the train pulled into the station, he wondered if he could just bolt past his old man and find lodging elsewhere. He had done it in New York with great success, why would Oklahoma be any different?

Stepping onto the platform, a grungy man with overalls, a cowboy hat, and steel-toed boots approached him. "Dallas? Son? Is that you?" He had asked, the drawl in his voice making the words sound funny. "Boy howdy, it's been awhile."

Dally had rolled his eyes, he remembered. If he hadn't looked so darn much like the guy, he might have tried to play it off and get away—pretend that he had the wrong kid, that he wasn't related—but he couldn't. Part of him wanted to give this man a chance, let him be the father that he was supposed to be. The other part wanted to punch him in the face—after all, he wouldn't be in this mess had this lowlife been able to keep it in his pants.

It wasn't long before he had shown ol' Dad a thing or two and gotten himself kicked out the house—probably only a couple of days. It wasn't long before he had met up with another boy, Tim Shepard, who seemed almost as bitter and angry as he was.

And if it weren't for Tim, he wouldn't have met the Curtises or Steve or Two-Bit… Or Johnny either…

The silence in the lot became deafening. Had his one-way trip to Tulsa made things better or worse for everyone? The strange voice from the streetlight seemed to think that he had made things better, but that had to be a load of bull. Curiosity began to overtake him and Dally couldn't help himself. What _would_ things have been like if he hadn't taken the train that hot summer day?

"Hey!" Dally yelled, the urgency in his voice startling him slightly. "Whoever you are! Come back!"

"Yes?" The voice responded quietly, almost inaudibly, as if it had given Dally his chance and didn't want to be noticed this second time around.

"I've decided that I want to know."

"I thought you might change your mind…"

The streetlight made an electric humming sound and then flickered slightly. Dally felt as if the world was spinning uncontrollably and closed his eyes. He dropped a knee to the ground to steady himself and set the gun down in the grass at his feet. When the spinning sensation finally died down, he stood up and looked around…


	2. Running on Empty

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Outsiders_.

* * *

_Toto, I'm not in Kansas anymore_, Dally thought sarcastically to himself. He had never liked that movie—never saw it all the way through either—but somehow he could identify with the plain country girl. Dorothy was it? From what he could remember she had been pretty cute, in an average sort of way. This was no Oz, that was for sure, but things were certainly unusual. Riding a tornado to an enchanted world seemed more logical than what was currently happening.

"So now what?" Dally asked as he took in his surroundings.

It took a while for the voice to respond. "Does everything always have to be done on your time? By your instruction?" It asked, its tone chastising. "You need to be patient. You'll see what you're meant to see…"

"All right. All right," Dally muttered. The voice, whoever or whatever it belonged to, had the upper hand and he wasn't used to that. Dallas Winston was usually the one calling all the shots…

Focusing his attention, Dally realized that he was in a back alley on the bad side of town. He and Tim had been here before, grabbing a couple beers and smokes with some of the boys from the Brumly outfit. It was a hike, but the cops didn't check up on this neighborhood and the locals were either too drunk or too scared to mess with a bunch of greasy teenagers. The street was seedy and unkempt, lined with liquor stores, bars, and strip joints, and the smell of alcohol and desperation carried on the wind like pollen on a fall day. It wasn't the safest of places, but he would have rather spent time here than on the affluent west side of town—hands down.

Dally reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "I almost forgot about these," he announced quietly to himself. His lips curled up in a half smile as he brought one to his mouth and lit it. He inhaled deeply and leaned back against the building's brick façade. It occurred to him that, earlier that night—after hitting up the grocery store—he thought he'd never taste the flavor of tobacco again. It was good to get it into his system once more.

"Want a smoke?" He called out to no one in particular. If the gang were here, everyone would have taken him up on the offer…

"Do you think this is a joke?" The voice piped in, breaking into his thoughts.

Dally closed his eyes and exhaled. "Of course not," he replied innocently. "Now, tell me again, what am I supposed to be seeing out here?"

"Him…"

"Huh? Where?" Dally looked around the alley. He was the only physical person there, and the pristine quiet from the deserted street made it seem like he was the only one for blocks. He took a step out toward the sidewalk and looked around again. It wasn't lit much better than the alley, but he could detect a small amount of movement by one of the parked cars. It was a guy, definitely a greaser. Was this the _him_ the voice was referring to?

Dally paused, tossing his cigarette to the ground and grinding it up with the toe of his boot. Should he stay in the shadows or mosey right on out there? He wasn't sure. He had never been in such a situation before.

"No one can see you," the voice cut in, reading into his moment of hesitation. "This is a glimpse, remember? You can't affect the outcome here. You're just an observer."

Dally nodded and moved forward. Slowly approaching the parked car, he could see that the guy was lifting hubcaps and shoving them into a ratty old book bag. _So I'm here to see a petty thief_, he thought, unimpressed.

Dally sidestepped off of the curb and over toward the front of the car. He leaned against the hood with his elbow, craning his neck to get a good look at the guy. In the dim light from the one working streetlight overhead, he could see that it was Steve Randle.

"Steve?" He asked out loud. "What is he doing on this side of town? Shouldn't he be at work or something?"

The voice did not provide a response, and Dally watched as Steve put the last hubcap into the bag. Looking around suspiciously to make sure no one had seen him, Steve hopped up onto the sidewalk, slung the bag over his shoulder, and trotted briskly to the next parked car.

Dally followed.

At the next vehicle, a beat up old Ford, Steve put his hands up to the passenger's side window and cupped them around his eyes, giving him a good look inside—the door was unlocked. Flinging it open, Steve scooted across the bench seating to the driver's side and tinkered with the wires under the steering column. In an instant, the car roared to life.

Dally watched, stunned. He had known Steve to steal pieces and parts like hubcaps, but he had never heard him speak of stealing a whole car. It seemed so out of character.

"Get in," the voice commanded suddenly, urging Dally to slip into the passenger seat. As he did so, Steve reached over and pulled the door closed, narrowly grazing Dally's right shoulder. Dally held his breath and slowly released it. Could Steve touch him without realizing it? Could Steve sense his presence even though he was invisible? Dally's guide, the voice, certainly wasn't giving him any answers.

As they drove to an unknown destination, the voice spoke up again. "So, Dallas, do you see now?"

Dally snorted, looking out the window at the passing buildings. "See what? That Steve is good at lifting hubcaps? That Steve has a hidden life as a criminal?"

"No…" The voice coaxed. "There's nothing hidden about it. That _is_ his life. Your absence in Tulsa set about a chain of events that led Steve to become the loner you see before you. He isn't friends with Sodapop anymore, he doesn't even associate with the gang. He doesn't have a girlfriend or a real job. He's a petty thief, like you said yourself, and he makes his money by stealing cars, not fixing them…"

Dally was incredulous. "That's ridiculous!" He exclaimed. "That doesn't make any sense."

"But it does. Maybe your presence brought him closer to Sodapop Curtis somehow. Maybe your place in the gang made him realize that an honest living is worth having… It could have been anything, Dallas. What matters is that you came to Tulsa and prevented Steve from living this life."

Dally looked over at his friend. Steve was focusing intently on the road and driving carefully, making sure not to raise any suspicion that he was in a stolen car. His eyes were solemn and cold. Steve had always been a volatile guy, quick to get angry and pick a fight, but he hadn't been bitter. He hadn't been desperate. And he certainly hadn't been a hood.

Dally sighed. No friends, no girlfriend, no job? All three of those things had been so important to Steve. Like Dally, Steve never got along with his old man and never felt his worth at home—so he clung to those other things. He had his friends in the gang to lean on and talk to. He had Evie, his girlfriend, to spoil and dote on. And he had his job at the DX gas station to be proud of and excel at…

Dally was still lost in thought when he felt the car coming to a stop. He turned to Steve and watched as he pulled the car into an old freight station, just outside the city limits. The pavement road abruptly turned to dirt and fanned out in a large turn-around area where trucks used to pick up their daily haul. There was a payphone off to one side, and as soon as he parked the car, Steve hopped out and stood next to it. He glanced down at his shoes and kicked at some pebbles, then looked up absently, staring right at Dallas even though he couldn't see him. Dally stared right back, unsettled by the expression in Steve's eyes, and not quite sure why. His gaze was broken when the phone suddenly began to ring.

Steve didn't look surprised. "I'm here," he said solemnly, his voice drained of any feeling, after picking up the receiver.

As if he was on the line himself, Dally could hear the reply from inside the car. "You got the parts I asked for?"

"Yeah, four hubcaps, some hood ornaments, and some engine parts." His voice didn't change at all. He sounded as cool as all get-out.

"Good." There was a slight pause. "I've got another job for you, Randle."

"I'm listening."

"There's a Corvair down at the east side DX. It's in for an oil change. One of my contacts from out of state would like to _purchase_ it—it's his daughter's sixteenth birthday—so I want you to go and pick it up for me."

Dallas shivered slightly. The voice on the other end of the phone was cold and hard, and it was completely unfamiliar to him. He had been in some pretty bad circles and had never heard anyone like this before—never heard anyone with such a dangerous overtone. Whoever this guy was, he meant business and he didn't sound like he'd be forgiving of any slip up that might occur. He was definitely trouble, and someone that even Dally wouldn't want to associate with… But he didn't seem to bother Steve any.

"I can do that," Steve replied without hesitation. "When do you want it?"

"Tomorrow morning. Six-o-clock. Not a second later."

"No problem."

The conversation ended with the click of the connection being broken. Steve leaned against the phone booth, ran a hand through his greased hair, and sighed. Dally could see an emotion spread across his friend's face. Although his voice had hidden it, his eyes didn't lie—it looked like fear.

"Now what do we do?" Dally asked, feeling nervous for his friend.

"Nothing," the voice replied. "We just wait and see what happens."

The next couple of hours went by slowly as Steve sat on the hood of the old Ford and smoked one cigarette after another. Dally had only seen him do that once before—the time he thought Evie was pregnant.

Dally remembered it well. It was the only time that Steve Randle had wanted to kill him, really truly wanted to beat him to a pulp…

He and Steve and Sodapop had been sitting on the Curtis' front porch drinking some Cokes and smoking after dropping their girls off.

"What's eating you?" Soda had asked nonchalantly, and out of nowhere as usual. That boy's mind functioned unlike anyone else's.

Steve had known that Soda was talking to him, even without being addressed. Dally guessed that that's how best friends were. "Evie's late," he replied quickly. "She's afraid she might be pregnant."

Dally remembered being amazed, but not surprised. "Well ain't that special?" He had asked with a smirk and a laugh. "A sixteen-year-old baby having a kid of his own. Way to go Randle, I always knew you were one of a kind."

For some reason, a little good-natured ribbing had set old Steve over the edge, and before Dally knew it, Steve was on top of him and they were rolling in the front grass. It took Soda and Darry, who had come running out of the house—barely dry and clothed from his after work shower—to break it up.

Although he had been mad that day, Dally knew that, no matter what, Steve would always have his back. He thought for a moment and wondered if anyone had Steve's back right now. Was Steve really as alone as he seemed to be?

When Steve hopped off the car and headed down the street on foot, Dally was right behind him, following him all the way to the familiar DX station.

It looked the same as it always did—at least nothing had changed there. Since it was at least two or three in the morning, the office and garage areas both looked dark and deserted. Steve snuck around the back of the building and to the garage's back door. He knelt down on the ground, producing a shiny switchblade from his back pocket and shoved it into the thin slice of space between the door and the frame. He jiggled the blade a little bit—up and down next to the door handle—and the lock finally clicked. Slowly and silently, the turned the handle and the door swung open.

Dally followed Steve into the dark room and over to a car that was just barely visible by the moonlight that poured in through the garage's single window. He watched as Steve made his way to a far wall that contained a pegboard with a smattering of hooks across it. Some of the hooks had sets of keys hanging off of them, and Steve carefully studied each set. He pulled two down from the wall and went over to the Corvair. He tried one set, and then another in the driver's side door, both times with no luck. He tossed the keys aside and went back to the board until he found the right set. When he did the car started up with a loud echoing roar and Steve looked around nervously. Even though he knew cars inside and out, he seemed surprised at the volume of this one's engine.

A little jittery, he made his way over to the large garage door and began to open it. When it was about five feet up, Dally noticed the figure of a man standing just outside. "Hey, you! What are you doing in here?" The man yelled. It was the owner, the same guy that Steve would have been working for—but they were strangers now.

Dally was confused. This guy's reaction time was impeccable! Steve must have triggered a silent alarm or something—and the guy must have lived right down the street. He took a step inside the building and flipped a light switch to his left. The garage was illuminated by a fluorescent glow that went from dim to unusually bright in a few seconds. It nearly blinded Dally, and, he figured, it must have been doing a number on Steve as well. In the new light, Dally could see that the owner was holding a gun, and pointing it right at Steve.

"Calm down, man. Just take it easy and put the gun down," Steve said, his voice shaking a little bit. He backed up toward the running car and climbed inside

_Smart guy_, Dally thought to himself. _No east side DX owner is going to shoot up a rich customer's car._

"Get out of there!" The guy yelled helplessly. "I'm going to call the cops!"

Steve released the park brake and shifted into drive. "I'm really scared!" He taunted. "Thanks for the ride!"

"You stupid kids!"

Dally had heard that before. He knew this scenario all too well. Although he hadn't had a getaway car, he knew how the situation would end even without being there to see it. He watched helplessly as Steve laid on the gas and sped out of the station. It was only a matter of time before the cops caught up with him. Only a matter of time before they cornered him with or without the car in some alley. But what would be worse? Telling the guy from the phone call that you failed, or getting thrown into jail—Dally couldn't tell.

Before he had any more time to think about it, the fluorescent lights in the garage made a buzzing sound and started to flicker. Then the spinning started…


	3. The Prince of Thieves

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Outsiders_ or any of the characters you recognize.

* * *

"Dallas… Dallas…"

"I hear you," Dally snapped. He was fully aware that the voice was calling out to him, but mentally he was still back at the DX, watching Steve speed away in his second stolen car of the night. He couldn't understand why he had felt concerned for Steve. Why he had actually _cared_ about what would happen to him. Steve was a big boy and he could take care of himself. If he could get into a mess, then he could certainly get himself back out of it—one way or another. But things were different in this Tulsa, Dally realized. Things seemed darker and less familiar. So it made sense that even his emotions were all out of whack.

"Do you know where you are now?" The voice asked, cutting into his thoughts.

Dally took a look around. He was standing at the edge of a large expanse of grass surrounded by tall bleachers on either side. "It looks like the high school football field," he replied flatly.

"Exactly," the voice said, almost cheerfully. It made Dallas want to gag.

"So who am I going to see here? Ponyboy? Johnnycake? Sodapop perhaps?" Dally asked with mock enthusiasm. Although he was serious, and would have accepted an answer, he couldn't help but act up a little bit. It was who he was.

"Haven't you learned anything yet? You need to be patient…"

Dally rolled his eyes. More games. He hated not having control of the situation. It drove him nuts to be at someone else's disposal.

Maybe that was why he had dropped out of school when he was still a kid. Even then, he had had enough of the authority figures that walked the school halls and graced the morning announcements. He wanted more in life than to be told what to do. He wanted to have the sufficiency to get things done all by himself, on his own time, by his own rules. Get tough and nothing can touch you—such a philosophy had worked well for him over the years. In fact, it was the only way he knew to survive.

As he stood in thought, Dally noticed a group of teenagers dressed in their gym clothes come filing out onto the field. A single teacher lugging bags of equipment wasn't far behind.

_Physical Education—what a waste of time_, he thought. He had never liked that class, even as an overanxious kid with too much energy.

Dally walked over to where the students were gathering and climbed up into the bleachers, taking a seat in the first row. He squinted, straining to pick out a familiar face from the crowd. He couldn't find anyone so he listened as the teacher began to call roll. Finally, one name stuck out.

"Matthews, Keith!" The teacher yelled.

There was no response.

"Matthews, Keith!" He yelled again, his face getting visibly angry this time.

Still no response.

"You've got one more try, Mr. Matthews," the teacher muttered, unimpressed. "Matthews, Keith!"

"I'm here… Okay?" Came the monotone reply.

Dally was slightly perplexed. _What? No joke or off the wall comment? And why did the teacher call him Keith?_ Two-Bit had always bragged about the fact that, even in school, his nickname got precedence over the one his mother had given him.

The voice didn't supply any explanation like it had for Steve, so Dally sat and watched the class period unfold. They were breaking up into groups of boys and girls—the boys were getting set to throw some footballs around and the girls were breaking out a bunch of jump ropes. It looked like a dull way to spend the afternoon.

Two-Bit had always been good at football. Whenever they had played in the lot, Dally was always thankful to have him on his team—although he was no Darry, but that was neither here nor there. Dally reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes again. He lit one and puffed on it as he eyed the students. He noticed that Two-Bit had been paired up with a tall, lanky, redheaded boy. He was a dorky kid, obviously more well off in the money department than Two-Bit was—even his sweatpants seemed pressed and clean—and he didn't seem to have a clue as to what he was doing. He took the ball that he was given and heaved it over at Two-Bit.

Two-Bit walked forward, struggled to make a catch, and then shook his head. "You know, the rest of the girls are playing with the jump ropes." He called out. "If you can't throw the damn ball right, I suggest you head over in that direction." He pointed to where the girls were and then sneered at the boy across from him.

"Sorry, Keith," the red head mumbled. "I'm no good at football. I'll try to do better next time."

Dally smiled as he took another deep puff from his cigarette. Didn't this kid know better than to be scared of old Two-Bit? And what was with this Keith stuff?

Two-Bit adjusted the ball in his hands and threw it back. It spiraled perfectly through the air with just enough lift and speed. Even though it was a flawless throw, the boy batted it to the ground and bent over to pick it up instead. He looked up at Two-Bit and was met with an icy glare. He sort of shrugged a little bit and then prepared to make his next throw. This time it didn't just make it to Two-Bit, it sailed over his head.

Two-Bit turned and walked calmly to where the ball was laying in the grass. "I'll show him…" He muttered under his breath. He picked up the ball and quickly turned back toward the other boy, beaming the ball right at him. Since he wasn't even paying attention, the ball nailed him right in the head—hard.

"Hey!" He yelled, startled. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Two-Bit beat him to it.

"That's what you get, punk!" Two-Bit yelled, his eyes wild and angry. "Next time it'll be my fist slamming you in the face!"

"Keith!" It was the teacher. "I saw that. I'm not going to have you turning my class into a free-for-all again! Now go and sit over there in the bleachers." He pointed right to where Dally was. "Michael, you can throw with me over here."

Two-Bit muttered something and sluggishly walked over to the bleachers. He sat about three feet down from Dally and leaned forward against the railing. He watched the students contentedly, like he was taking notes or something—like he was mentally recording their strengths and weaknesses. He seemed for all the world like a bully, something that the Two-Bit Dally knew never was. Instead of spouting insults and threats, that Two-Bit would have been cracking jokes and pulling pranks. Come to think of it, he hadn't raised an eyebrow or flashed his trademark Cheshire grin once this whole time… That had to be a new record or something.

As if on cue, the voice began to explain. "He's different than the boy you knew, Dallas."

Dally blew smoke over at where Two-Bit was still sitting. "No shit?" He asked. He didn't like it when people talked down to him and pointed out the obvious. He may have dropped out before he learned how to multiply and divide and spell big words, but he was no idiot.

The voice didn't respond to his reply, but rather continued."Two-Bit isn't _Two-Bit_ anymore. He's just Keith now, an angry eighteen-year-old that hates school, has a penchant for picking fights, and keeps landing himself in jail. It all started when he was arrested for breaking some school windows."

Dally thought for a moment. _Windows?_ That sounded really familiar. Were these the same school windows that he had taken the blame for that one time? It certainly wasn't some huge deal. The cops, naturally, thought he did it so they came and hauled him in. He didn't bat an eye over it, they were just windows for Christ's sake, and the jail time was hardly anything severe. This new scenario didn't make any more sense than the whole thing with Steve.

"I don't believe it," Dally scoffed. "So I took the fall for something Two-Bit did—big deal. If he had gone to jail instead of me, it wouldn't have changed anything. Two-Bit would always be Two-Bit no matter what. The joking and wisecracks are all a part of him and his personality. No stint in jail would stifle that."

"But it did," the voice replied haughtily. "Without you to take the blame, Two-Bit's path and hence his personality have greatly changed. He's a little colder and meaner, now. He's not the jovial spirit that kept the gang in stitches."

"I still think that's a load of crap," Dally muttered. He turned to look at the friend in question and noticed that he wasn't at his seat down the bleachers anymore.

Dally stood up and leaned over the railing, craning his neck to see if he had been called back onto the field. When he didn't see him out with the rest of the kids, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and walked off of the bleachers. He looked back towards the school—nothing. Where had he gone?

After a moment, Dally heard some shuffling behind him. He turned and saw Two-Bit, crouched down by a pile of book bags and jackets—it must have been the last session of the day, because everyone had brought their belongings out with them.

He watched silently as Two-Bit carefully sifted through each bag. He lifted out wallets and girl's purses and took anything that he deemed valuable—money, cigarettes, rings, and sometimes necklaces that had to be taken off until gym class was over. When he was satisfied that he had found enough, or just wary that the class could be ending soon, Two-Bit grabbed his own book bag and leather jacket from the pile and headed toward the field's concession stands. He went into one of the bathrooms and came out, greased up and wearing jeans and a flannel shirt instead of his gym uniform. Then he headed off school grounds.

Dally shook his head and followed. Some things never changed. Two-Bit had always been something of a kleptomaniac.

As they walked farther away from the school, Dally could feel Two-Bit's pace quickening, so he sped up his gait, trotting more than walking. He lagged behind a little bit, keeping an eye on his friend. He watched as Two-Bit entered every store on the block, looked around for a bit, and left with a souvenir—free of course via the five finger discount. At one stop he even took the time to cuss out the cashier for having him arrested sometime earlier. Arrested? The voice had mentioned that he found himself in and out of jail quite frequently now…

As they journeyed farther into town, Two-Bit and Dally came upon two blondes, standing at a bus stop. They were greasy girls, decked out in tight jeans and low cut shirts, and they were all done up for an evening at The Dingo or Jay's. They looked older than they probably were, but with Two-Bit's propensity for blondes, Dally figured age didn't matter much. Besides, girls that looked like that were just asking for attention. It would almost be rude not to give them what they were so obviously craving.

Dally stood back and watched as Two-Bit approached them. Although he was serious and mean now—heck, he went by Keith for crying out loud—he most likely still had his way with the ladies. He swaggered their way, easily catching the girls' attention. They both eyed him, looking interested.

Dally saw a sly smirk spread across Two-Bit's face. _Here it comes_, he thought. _Here comes one of his smooth lines_.

But, instead of flirting, Dally was shocked to see Two-Bit pull out his switchblade and hold it up at the two blondes. "Now I'll make this simple for you two," he said in a low voice, looking from one to the next. "Just give me any money or valuables that you might have and I'll be on my way."

The first blonde opened her mouth like she was about to protest and say something. Dally could imagine her disbelief. They were standing out in the open, on a semi-busy street corner and some hood was jumping them for their valuables? The Two-Bit he once knew would have stolen a kiss from girls like them, not money or jewelry.

"Listen, Sweetheart," Two-Bit hissed before she could get any words out. "Don't give me any trouble and I won't hit your pretty face. Just give me what I want—that's all. No big deal, right?"

The girl looked terrified. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a five dollar bill. Then she slowly and tentatively handed it to Two-Bit. "It's all I got mister," she said quietly, "I swear."

Two-Bit quickly grabbed it and put it into his own back pocket. "Thanks, now what about your friend?"

The second blonde looked to the first blonde and then over to Two-Bit. Two-Bit flashed his switchblade again.

"I… I… I don't have any money," she stammered. "I ain't got a job yet. I'm only fifteen."

Two-Bit narrowed his gray eyes and stared at her. "Is that so? Then I'll just take that locket you're wearing," he said quickly.

The girl unconsciously reached up to her neck, looking defeated. Sure enough, the shiny gold chain of a locket was sitting up on top of her shirt—so much for having it go unnoticed. She looked like she was going to cry.

"My boyfriend gave me this," she said timidly. "He's locked up for the next year and half and it's all I've got left of him."

Two-Bit shook his head. "Do you think a little sob story like that is going to make me change my mind?" He asked quietly. Then he raised his voice. "Hand it over!"

The girls both jumped, shaken by his sudden shouting.

"I mean it. Give me the locket," Two-Bit said, his voice menacing.

The second blonde looked at her feet and carefully removed the locket from around her neck. She handed it over to Two-Bit, her eyes filled with tears.

Two-Bit took it from her and opened it up. He glanced at the pictures inside and then smirked at her. "What a cute couple," he cooed. He turned to walk away and then hesitated. "Look, Beautiful," he said after a moment, shoving the locket into his back pocket with the other blonde's money. "If you're still sore about this in a year and a half, you can tell your hood of a boyfriend that Keith Matthews took your locket. If he wants to get it back for you, he can find me around town. Okay?"

The girl silently nodded. She looked at her friend and then they both ran off down the street. Two-Bit laughed to himself and sat down on the curb, waiting for the bus.

Dally couldn't decide if he was appalled or impressed. If that had been him, he wouldn't have felt guilty for jumping a pair of underage girls and he probably would have cheered Two-Bit on for doing it too. But seeing as how the whole situation and all the events leading up to it were different, it just didn't seem right.

It didn't seem like Two-Bit at all…

While jail would make the average guy cold and mean, a guy like Two-Bit would certainly have the resiliency to withstand all of that. A guy like Two-Bit would have been able to make friends and tell jokes, to keep the mood light and airy. He would have had no problem in jail. If anything, he would have been bored and that was all.

When the bus finally pulled up to the curb, Dally followed Two-Bit on. He didn't offer a friendly hello to the driver, just handed over a few loose coins and made his way to the back of the bus. He gave a dirty look to some younger teenagers and then took his seat.

As the bus drove down the street, Two-Bit shuffled his book bag on his lap and opened it up. Dally noticed that the only things in it were his gym clothes and the items that he had collected over the course of the afternoon. No text books, of course.

Two-Bit gathered up all the money that he had collected and carefully counted it. He double checked his count and then folded it neatly, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled out the other items—rings, candy bars and other trinkets from the stores he had recently been in, the blonde's locket—and placed them on the seat next to him. He arranged them in some unknown order and put the more valuable things into his jacket pocket with the money. Then he shoved the rest of the items into the bag's front pocket.

After about fifteen minutes, Two-Bit stood up and signaled to the bus driver that he wanted to get off. The bus pulled over to the curb and both Dally and Two-Bit hopped out and onto the sidewalk.

They were in front of a little down town park. Dally had only seen this place at night, when he had gotten some kicks by rolling the drunks that stumbled off the bus from the seedy part of town. It looked really different in the daylight.

Dally followed Two-Bit into the park and down some rolling pathways lined with brightly colored flowers. They walked around a bubbling fountain and toward a row of benches that were shaded by the large oak trees that loomed overhead. Everything looked happy and clean, except for a single ragged bum that was laying on one of the benches. Two-Bit had noticed him too. He coolly and silently walked over toward him.

_Is he gonna jump this guy too? I can't imagine that he'd have anything worth taking_, Dally thought. He watched as Two-Bit sat down on the bench by the guy's feet. He grabbed him by one ankle and started shaking him slightly.

"Hey, Darrel, wake up…"


	4. Forgetting to Fly

Disclaimer: I (still) do not own _The Outsiders_.

* * *

Dally's jaw dropped. _Darry?_ He thought wildly. _What's going on here?_

"I brought you some stuff," Two-Bit whispered, digging into his pockets and retrieving the goods that he had stolen throughout the day. "There's cash here, and some jewelry too. You can pawn off the jewelry and get money for it. Whatever you need, man."

Darry sat up groggily. "Thanks, Keith," he replied, rubbing his eyes with the back of a dirty hand. "You really don't have to keep doing this…"

"Look, I told you I'd help you out until you get back on your feet. I can't help but feel sort of responsible for everything. I mean, if I didn't get you drunk that night…"

"Keith, it wasn't your fault," Darry replied, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "We both made some stupid decisions. And now I'm paying for my share of them."

_Stupid decisions? _Dally's mind was going a mile a minute. Darry was hardly the one to be making stupid decisions. He had always been the rational one—the one with the cool head, and the one who had kept everything from falling apart after his parents had died. He was smart, not street smart like the rest of the gang, but actually school smart—sort of like the way Ponyboy was turning out to be. He could have made something of himself had things happened differently. He could have gone off to college and gotten a real job with real prospects, far away from the gang wars between greasers and Socs.

While Steve liked to joke that Darry was "all brawn and no brain," that fact couldn't have been farther from the truth. Not too many twenty-year-olds from Darry's situation could have held a steady job, made consistent payments on a house, _and _kept two younger brothers in line. What was he talking about? Stupid decisions? Now _that_ was the stupidest thing Dally had heard all day!

"You tell me what's going on here!" Dallas shouted, hoping the voice could hear him. "I want an answer, a reason for why Darry is like this!"

The voice remained silent.

"Tell me! Tell me right _NOW_!" Dally pounded his fist against the back of the park bench that Darry was sitting on, his eyes raging blue fire. He didn't fully understand why the sight of Darrel Curtis as a derelict had gotten under his skin, but for the first time since he had embarked on this strange journey, he was seething with anger.

The situation just wasn't fair.

Maybe Darry's voice was still fresh in his mind from the phone call he had made what seemed like years ago. Although he hadn't said much, Darry had listened and had shown up at the lot with the rest of the gang in tow. How often had Darry been there waiting in the wings, or offering a meal or a place to sleep? How often had he put his troubles aside for his brothers or any other member of the gang? People like Darry who had to go up against the world didn't deserve to be bums on the street. No Soc. from the west side of town would have to suffer through such a life. No Soc. would have to set his dignity aside like that… But this wasn't about the Socs. They hadn't made Darry this way. This was about him, Dallas Winston. If the glimpses the voice showed him were true then this was _his_ fault. He was responsible for Darry's life on the streets.

"So are you going to crash at my place tonight?" Two-Bit asked.

"You mean your _Mom's_ place?" Darry laughed.

"Yeah, yeah. You know what I mean."

"I guess so. It would be nice to get a warm shower and to put some real food in my stomach. Then maybe I could check out the paper and look for a job too. The weather's getting nicer so there are bound to be some roofing positions opening up…"

"Well, we'd have to pick up a copy of today's paper on the way home then. Mom doesn't usually just buy one. Money's tight as it is and, come on, do you think any of us really care to read it anyway?"

Darry stood up from the bench and stretched his arms, they were still big, but the muscles had lost a bit of their firm tone due to the lack of use. "I suppose not," he replied. "Although a little reading never hurt anyone."

Two-Bit ignored him and they both headed out of the park. They waited at the bus stop and when it came around they both hopped on and headed out of the city.

Dally didn't have the patience or the desire to follow them.

Over the course of his previous glimpses, Dally had mimicked both Steve and Two-Bit's every move and didn't like what he had seen. He knew that Darry would end up at Two-Bit's house, and if he didn't he was pretty sure that he could locate him in other ways. Besides, there wasn't anything new that he was going to see by accompanying them—he could just about guess how Two-Bit was going to acquire a copy of the newspaper.

As he headed out of town on foot, the voice spoke up. "You're not giving up on this are you?" It asked.

"Of course not," Dally hissed. "I'm just not going to be a shadow anymore. I'm going to do things my way from here on out. You've had you chance to boss me around."

"Boss you around? Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"What would you call it?"

"I'd say I'm helping."

"Ha!" Dally laughed spitefully. "The only thing you've helped me to do is realize that my decision to end my life was worth it. From the way things turned out with my friends so far, the world is definitely not a good place. I'm glad I'll be leaving it soon."

"The glimpses you are seeing are of how things could have been, Dallas. Have you forgotten that your trip to Tulsa as a child prevented those scenarios from coming to fruition?"

"Whatever you say," Dally said, refusing to truly listen. This guy used weird words like _fruition_ for crying out loud. "You still haven't told me why Darry ended up the way he did…"

Dallas waited for a response, but in typical fashion, the voice had already left him. He continued on his walk and eventually ended up in the old neighborhood. Dally walked down a rundown residential street and toward the Curtis house. As he approached, he could see that it had changed too.

It was a lot like Darry, actually, warn out and weathered. Empty and slowly falling into ruin, there was a big "Foreclosure" sign sticking up out of the front yard. Obviously, whatever mistake Darry had made had resulted in him losing the house. Had a drunken night with the new Two-Bit prevented him from going to work or some other commitment? Maybe there had been a rip-roaring party at the Curtis place and the cops had come to resolve a complaint. No matter what the reason, Darry was now on the streets, finding shelter at friends' houses and on park benches. Were Ponyboy and Sodapop doing the same thing? Dally hadn't even heard mention of them yet. Maybe it was better off that way.

Dallas stepped toward the front yard and opened the rickety gate that wrapped around the Curtis' small property. He approached the front steps and climbed them. Using the sleeve from his jacket, he rubbed some dirt off of the large living room window and peered inside.

Instead of seeing the dusty and deserted interior, he saw a home filled with the verve and energy from five years ago. It exuded warmth and safety, two things that his own home never had. Dally blinked his eyes and then rubbed them with his hand. Was he really seeing this?

As he focused his vision, he could clearly see Mrs. Curtis sitting down at the dining room table, surrounded by a seemingly endless array of bills. He watched through the glass as a younger Darry emerged from the kitchen, carrying a dinner plate piled high with leftovers from that evening's meal.

"How was practice tonight, Honey?" Mrs. Curtis asked her son as he sat down across from her and hungrily attacked the food on his plate.

"Great!" Young Darry exclaimed, talking through bites. "Coach says that I'll be a starter on the _varsity_ team if I keep it up… And I'm only a freshman!"

Dally listened as the teenaged version of his friend rambled off some highlights from the practice. It was hard to remember Darry that way at all. It had been so long ago.

After a few moments, another more familiar voice—somewhat higher pitched, but familiar none the less—caught his attention. "Now you listen to me, you two. It ain't safe for little kids to be hanging around at the lot after the sun goes down. You guys can't protect yourselves the way I can. You better stop acting like babies and start thinkin' for once. You dig?"

"We dig, Dally," came the even higher pitched reply—a chorus of two more childish voices.

Dally turned and watched with partial amusement as a younger version of himself climbed the stairs to the front porch, dragging Ponyboy and Johnny behind. He vaguely remembered how, even as a kid, he had looked out for them and kept them out of harm's way.

If only he had been able to keep up with that in more recent years. A lot of good he had done about a week ago…

Dally brought his attention back to the Curtis' living room as the door swung open and he brought the two younger boys inside. "Mrs. Curtis," his younger self began, his eyes hard and unflinching, "I was just passin' by on the way to Tim's, and I found these two playing in the lot again. They need to learn that the lot ain't no place for a couple of kids, especially at night."

Mrs. Curtis, who had been listening intently let out a sigh and shook her head. Dally could tell now that it was done to humor him, but at the time he hadn't even realized it. "Why, thank you, Dallas. I'll keep a better eye on them next time," she replied.

Young Dally nodded. "I sure hope so," he replied, his tone stern and defiant. "Because I don't have time to baby-sit them." Even then he had had the courage, or just plain nerve, to talk back to adults. He watched himself leave the house and head down the stairs to the sidewalk, light up a cigarette, and continue on his way.

Back in the house, Mrs. Curtis sent Ponyboy and Johnny off to get ready for bed—apparently Johnny had spent the night a lot back then too—and then went back to working on her bills.

Dally continued to watch through the front window as Darry looked over at his mother. "Why do you let him talk back to you like that?" He asked, referring to the twelve-year-old Dallas. "If that was me or Sodapop, you'd ground us or something."

Mrs. Curtis smiled at her son. "Dally is a different kind of kid than you or your brothers. He comes from a different kind of family and he's had a rougher life than you. I mean, that boy is only twelve and he's practically a grown up already. He's so set in his ways that no scolding from me is going to change his thinking."

Young Darry looked slightly confused. "So what do we do about someone like him, then? Just let him do what he wants?"

Mrs. Curtis laughed. It sounded eerily like Sodapop. "No, Darrel, we need to be stronger people and show him how to act by our example. We need to let him see the good in the world by the things that we do and say. Maybe then, one day, he'll realize it and adjust his attitude… At least a little bit, I'd hope." With a smile, she ruffled Darry's hair and then went back to working on her bills.

Darry seemed to process the information and then went on eating his dinner. "Mom?" He asked suddenly. "Do we have an easy life?"

Mrs. Curtis leveled with him. "Look, Honey, you know that we aren't the richest family in town, but your father and I do our best to provide for you and your brothers. Our life is far from easy, but at least you're growing up in a home with two parents who work very hard so that you can be happy. We figure that if we do our best at our jobs or wherever, then, at the end of the day, things will work out somehow and we'll be able to make ends meet—we have so far, anyway."

Darry looked at his mother very seriously. "Mom, I'm going to do the same thing when I become an adult," he said. "If things are tough for me, I'm going to press on and find a way to make everything work—just like you and Dad."

Mrs. Curtis beamed with pride. "I know you will, Darry," she said with a smile. "I know you will."

Dally turned away from the window for a moment and when he looked back inside, the place was dark and dull and empty again. He let out a low sigh and then sat down on the front steps. He pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and hastily lit it up. Was that it? Was that the reason he had demanded the voice for earlier? He could almost hear the voice's reply before it was spoken.

"There you go, Dallas. You asked, and now you know. Without you to spark a little healthy curiosity, Darry never had that conversation with his mother. He never questioned his family's situation, so he never realized that it takes a lot of hard work and dedication to keep things together."

"But… That was so _minor,_" Dally muttered under his breath.

"It doesn't matter how minor it was, but rather that it happened," the voice replied. "I know that this is just getting worse and worse for you, but you have to see. You have to realize what a positive impact you've had on the gang."

Dally shook his head. "I don't care what you show me," he said angrily. "I can't believe anything you say. I won't believe it."

"You are a stubborn one," the voice said with a small chuckle. "But you'll come around. They always do."

_They always do..._ The words echoed in his head for a moment.

_So this kind of thing is common for hoodlums with a death wish? Yeah, right._ He thought angrily.

Dally stood up from the stairs and left the Curtis house. Two-Bit and Darry were probably at the Matthews place by now. He walked down the street in a huff, wondering why he had even agreed to these glimpses. He should have just ignored the burning curiosity altogether. But it was too late now.

Approaching Two-Bit's house, Dally could hear his two friends conversing on the porch. As he got closer, he could tell that they had had quite a few drinks and that they were in the process of consuming more.

_So much for job hunting_, Dally thought to himself, hanging back by the sidewalk, just listening.

"Here's to you, Keith," Darry said, raising the beer can he was holding into the air. "For being a pal and always looking out for me."

Two-Bit laughed—the first one Dally had heard all day—as he guzzled down the can he was holding. "I do what I can. Gotta use my God-given talent for something…"

Darry laughed too, and then sobered up for a second. "And here's to my brothers."

Two-Bit nodded in agreement, then held up a fresh can of beer. "Yeah," he added. "Here's to Ponyboy and Sodapop. Wherever they are."

"Wherever they are…" Darry repeated quietly.

Dallas closed his eyes and shook his head. So Darry didn't even know where his brothers were—the same brothers that he had fought tooth and nail to protect from social services, the fuzz, and anyone else that might get in their way. Not only had Darry lost his parents in this life, but for all intensive purposes, he had lost his brothers too. Now all he had was booze and Two-Bit—who went by Keith, of course—to get him through day to day. It all seemed so unsettling.

Unable and unwilling to deal with it, Dally turned and headed back down the street. He came upon the vacant lot and the streetlight he had left behind and sat down beneath it.

"I hate this," he muttered to himself. "This is all just a big waste of time."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," the voice replied suddenly. "But you're half way done. Only three more people to see."

Dally sighed, not up for arguing at the moment, and waited as the buzzing sound and then the dizzying spinning sensation returned.


	5. Golden Opportunity

Disclaimer: _The Outsiders_ are not mine (though a girl can dream, right?). They continue to belong to S.E. Hinton. :)

* * *

Dallas opened his eyes when he felt the world stop rotating around him. Instead of finding himself in a familiar dark alley, or on the high school football field, Dally noticed that he was somewhere completely different this time. From what he could tell, it seemed like he was in a cheap suite at some rundown hotel.

The room that held him reeked of age. The furnishings were simple, almost nonexistent—just a bed, a dresser, and a single, stationary sink in the corner with a mirrored medicine cabinet hanging above it. The room's single window was covered by old and tattered paper thin curtains, and the light from the street was easily filtering through them. Dally stepped forward, pulling the curtains aside with one hand, and peered out the window. He was three or four stories up, above a city street lined with small trees. It didn't look like any street he had seen in Tulsa, but it had the same small town feel—the same bleak notion of being trapped within its limits and unable to go anywhere else.

It was growing dark out, the sun had descended from the sky and the night's first stars were just beginning to grace the darkened horizon. Dally narrowed his eyes and looked for a landmark, a clue as to where he was this time. He didn't see the Tulsa water tower anywhere. Even the people that walked down below were nondescript—not greasers and not Socs. either—just middle class folk on their way to or from work, depending on what shift they were dealt.

Dally sighed and pressed his forehead against the cool pane of glass. He would give anything to be back beneath that streetlight again. Back in the company of the friends he knew, and the cops that had fired their deadly bullets. Whether he had agreed to these glimpses or not, Dally didn't want to see anymore. He was getting tired of waiting and wondering…

Dallas turned from the window and crossed the room toward an open door. He peeked outside into a hallway lined with more doors, dimly lit from its tall ceiling by a dingy overhead chandelier. There were stairs to his right, coming up from the lower floor, and Dally slowly walked toward them. He leaned over the wooden railing that separated them from the narrow hall, and craned his neck to see just what was down there. It seemed that the floor below him opened up into some sort of gathering place, a large sitting room packed full of couches and chairs and tables to play board games on—certainly uncommon for any hotel that he had ever been in—and the muted chattering of young voices floated up through the still air.

Dally pulled away from the railing and made his way farther down the hallway. The wooden floors were dusty and looked as if they would let out a loud groaning creek at any second. Dally smiled to himself. If only he could have been invisible like this back in the real world—he could have gotten away with so much more…

As he inched his way farther down the hall, Dally heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs behind him. He slunk back into the shadows and leaned up against the wall, eyeing the stairs cautiously. Dally watched, curious, as a larger woman with a stack of folded clothes made her way to the room that he had just left. From where he was standing, he could see her place the pile down on the bed, and then head over to the window to adjust the curtains. Maybe this was a hotel after all, and a full service one at that—the maids even did your laundry! Dallas watched as she exited the room and then headed back down the stairs the way she came.

His eyes still on the woman, Dally moved farther along the wall and bumped up against some sort of frame with his shoulder. He turned his attention toward it and noticed that it was a plaque, hanging amid other framed photos and landscape pictures. "Omaha Home for Boys," he read out loud, "established 1920."

The words slowly sunk in and Dally felt a strange knot forming in his stomach. _Omaha_. His instinct had been right. He wasn't even in Oklahoma anymore. Was this why Darry didn't know the whereabouts of Sodapop and Ponyboy? Was one, or both, of them here in this very building?

Dally continued down the hall and toward the final doorway at the very end of it. The room had been dark when the woman had come upstairs, but now a corner of it was illuminated by a bedside lamp. Dally stepped into the room to investigate. As he entered, he noticed two twin beds with a small table in between to his right and two dressers and another small sink to his left. Sprawled out on one of the beds was Ponyboy.

Pony looked pretty much the same as he did the night of the rumble—although he hadn't been roughed up and his reddish brown hair was ungreased and short, cut closely around his ears. The length would have been a shock, but Dally had seen how Ponyboy looked out at the old church in Windrixville—now _that_ had been an astonishing sight! At least the kid wasn't blond like he had been back at home. Dally never liked his own blond hair. Such a light, wispy color seemed as if it should have been reserved for girls and Socs. It certainly wasn't for tough hoods from the wrong side of town—or for young greasers like Ponyboy.

Dally sauntered around the bed that Ponyboy was lying out on, his back propped up with pillows against the old metal headboard, and then sat down next to him. Ponyboy's eyes looked dreamier than usual, but they had that familiar contemplative look, that look that meant his mind was far away from his body and the rigors of his daily life. Even so, for all the similarities, there was something not quite right about Ponyboy and Dally couldn't put his finger on it.

Dally turned his gaze to the space on the wall that Ponyboy was staring at. There was nothing interesting there, just the same old wallpaper as out in the hallway. He looked back into his friend's eyes, and nearly fell over when Ponyboy lifted a rolled joint to his lips and inhaled deeply. Dally hadn't noticed that he was holding something… So that's why there were no lights on when the old lady had come upstairs.

_Dope? Ponyboy's smoking harder stuff now?_ Dally thought, surprised he didn't speak the words out loud. Maybe Ponyboy had been addicted to nicotine since he was ten or so, but he didn't seem the type to waste his life with real drugs.

"I see you've come across Ponyboy," the voice said—impeccable timing, as always.

"No kidding?" Dally replied, his voice flat and monotone. "I could've guessed that he'd be in a boys' home somewhere. But why Omaha? Why not somewhere in Oklahoma? And why the drugs?"

"Full of questions, are you?" The voice replied, sounding halfway amused. It hesitated for a moment and then continued. "Soon after Darry lost his job for getting into an altercation with his boss, Ponyboy and Sodapop became wards of the state. They were placed in the Tulsa Boys' Academy on the west side of town, but they caused too much trouble there so they were kicked out."

"What bunch of idiots would send a couple of greasers to a west side academy?" Dally scoffed. "They wouldn't stand a chance someplace like that."

"Sometimes the state means well, Dallas. But it didn't work out, so they were relocated here instead."

"What do you mean, _they_?" Dally asked, raising an eyebrow as he scanned the room. "You mean Sodapop is here someplace too?"

"Of course… Only a bunch of idiots would split up two brothers."

Dally got the feeling the voice was mocking him, and, frankly, it pissed him off. "I've had about enough of you!" He exclaimed, his voice loud and stern. "Instead of snide remarks, how about some answers?"

The voice was silent for a moment. "You'll get all the answers you want, Dallas. You just have to be patient first."

There it was again. That _patience_ word. Dally had never been the patient type, why would he suddenly start now, just moments before he finally died? The voice made absolutely no sense sometimes!

"So why the drugs?" Dally pressed on.

To his surprise, the voice began to explain. "Growing up without you in Tulsa, meant that Ponyboy never had a negative role model—or rather a person that showed him what _not_ to do. You probably didn't notice it, but the youngest Curtis was scared of you, Dallas. He respected you like everyone else, but he hardly liked you… You were too threatening, too hard, too bitter—too mean for him to actually like you as more than just a member of the gang."

"Gee, thanks," Dally muttered sarcastically, "for making me feel so good about myself."

"That's not the point here," the voice continued. "Without you around, Ponyboy got into more trouble than he normally would have. While living on the west side of town at the Boys' Academy for a while, Ponyboy was able to associate with some of the richer kids that lived in the area. With all that money to spend, they get their kicks differently than you greasers do. Instead of simple cigarettes, Pony was able to try out some other smokes too. That is, until he and Soda were kicked out."

Dally sighed in spite of himself. He didn't want to hear anymore about how his absence had turned Ponyboy Curtis into some sort of druggie. Even he, Dallas Winston, the toughest hood from Tulsa, hadn't been into drugs, although he wasn't exactly sure why—maybe the thought of being happy and carefree, even if only from a drug induced stupor, made him nervous. After all, happiness had never been part of his day to day lifestyle.

"So now they're here… And Darry doesn't know?"

"They lost touch with Darrel, just before they made the move to Omaha. Darry was usually too depressed to even see them when they were still in Tulsa… He blamed the whole thing on himself. He felt that, if he didn't lose his job and take up drinking after their parents' passed, he might have been able to maintain some control over the situation."

Dally looked over at Ponyboy and felt his anger rising again. The voice was speaking so matter-of-factly about everything—how could it not be upset over the unfairness of the entire situation? After all, the voice didn't know the Curtises. It didn't realize that their bond as brothers was stronger than any familial relationship Dally had ever experienced. Or did it?

Dally threw his hands in the air. "Enough…" He yelled, aggravated.

"But you said you wanted answers," the voice chided.

"I know I did. But not now, okay?" Dally said firmly. He realized that he was consciously trying to keep his voice from breaking and taking on the pleading tone he had used with Johnny just before he died.

Dally hated that tone. He hated the way it came out all high pitched and emotional and downright weak. He hated the way it implied that he cared or that he had feelings other than those of self-preservation. It nearly made him sick that he could sound that way.

Shifting his gaze around the room again, Dallas waited for the voice to cut in with some different remark, but it never did. Instead, the quiet was stifled as the noise from downstairs gradually lifted and filled the entire floor. Dally pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and looked over at Ponyboy. He lit it up and placed it to his lips, inhaling deeply and closed his eyes to intensify the feeling. At least this would help to calm him down.

Three cigarettes later, Dally was jolted back to reality by the sound of more footsteps. He opened his eyes and looked toward the doorway. In minutes, Sodapop came bounding through. Although he was wearing the same contagious smile from Tulsa, he looked slightly different too. The main thing, his golden hair, which had always been the pride of both himself and the gang, was cut short—even shorter than Ponyboy's.

_It's probably something they do to break you, like in jail._ Dally though as he stood up and made his way across the room. Like any greaser, he understood the importance of tuff, greasy, long hair—even though he hadn't cared for hair oil himself. It really was a shame to see Soda without his.

Although Sodapop was clad in jeans and a t-shirt, like always, nothing was stained with grease from work at the DX. Instead, it looked as if he had rolled around in a barn somewhere, as he was covered in what looked to be mud.

Soda made a face as he entered the room. "Are you smoking that in here again?" He asked suddenly, motioning toward Pony's hand.

Ponyboy offered a sheepish grin. "I had to do something!" He exclaimed. "This place is driving me crazy!"

Soda just shook his head. "You know what Ms. Raber will do if she catches you with that," he scolded. "I told you I'd stay with you until you're eighteen and old enough to leave this place, but if you get kicked out of here there's nothing I can do."

Ponyboy sighed and put the still smoldering weed out by grinding the edge of it into the bedside table. "Happy now?" He asked. "That cost me money, you know."

"Yeah, money that I shouldn't have given you," Soda retorted, heading over to the dresser and pulling out some clean clothes. "You know I work hard at the stables outside of town. I don't figure on giving you any more money if you're going to waste it on drugs."

Ponyboy rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet.

A small smirk crept across Dally's face. At least Ponyboy was using his head and not back talking his older brother this time around. Maybe that was _one_ thing that had changed for the better.

Soda flopped onto the foot of Ponyboy's bed and handed him a piece of paper. "Take a look at this while I take my shower," he said happily. "It's our ticket out of here." He smiled brightly and then hopped up and left the room for wherever the community bathroom was.

Dally watched as Ponyboy studied the paper briefly and then slammed it down on the bedside table. He apparently didn't believe it to be the same saving grace that Soda did.

When Soda reentered the room, Ponyboy looked at him questioningly. "How is _that _going to help us get out of here?" He asked skeptically.

Soda, who was shirtless with a towel wrapped across his shoulders, picked up the paper and looked at it again. Dally got a good look at it too, and noticed that it was a flyer advertising some local amateur rodeo contest.

"I was working at the stables late tonight, and someone had left a stack of these in the main office," Soda explained. "The top prize is a spot on the local circuit…"

"But you haven't even been in a rodeo since you were small… Since Dad made you stop after you tore a ligament."

"I've been practicing though," he replied, setting the paper down for a moment and then turning his back to Ponyboy. He dropped the towel away from his back and shoulders, revealing a set of large purple bruises, presumably from falling off of a horse.

Ponyboy looked concerned. "Soda, those look terrible. You could really hurt yourself."

"Yeah? Well I didn't," Soda said nonchalantly as he pulled on a white undershirt and sat down on the second twin bed. "And I really think that I have a shot. We could be out of this place and on the road together in under a month. Ms. Raber and the rest of the staff here wouldn't even know what happened to us."

Ponyboy didn't look convinced.

Soda eyed him. "You got any better ideas?" He asked. "I know you do a lot of thinkin' while you're in here by yourself."

Ponyboy sat quietly for a moment, his eyes growing large and almost tearful. It seemed like he was working out what he wanted to say in his head, that he had been thinking about saying it for some time now but never had the chance. "Wouldn't it be easier if we just hopped on a train and ran away from here?"

When Sodapop provided nothing but a blank look, Ponyboy continued. "We can go back home, Soda. Back to the house… Back to Darry," he pleaded. "Oklahoma ain't that far."

Soda looked at him impatiently. "Ponyboy, don't you get it? There _is_ no house anymore! Remember? We got that letter from Darry while we were back in Tulsa telling us how he missed a bunch of payments and lost it—how he got so drunk with Keith Matthews that he wasted what was left of Mom and Dad's account on pool hustling. We don't have anywhere to go back to!" Soda screamed, his eyes getting watery too.

"But, maybe…"

"No!" Soda yelled sternly, shaking any tears away. "There's no where to go. Look, Pony, you're my kid brother and I love you—I'd do anything for you—but you need to realize that we're here because we aren't wanted back in Tulsa. We dropped out of school, started causing trouble… We're damn lucky that social services got to us before the cops, otherwise we'd both be in juvenile hall right now."

Dally shook his head. Sure, Soda had dropped out of high school after his parents passed away, but Ponyboy had been able to stick it out. Ponyboy was too smart for that sort of thing. Like Darry, he could have been able to make something of himself. He deserved better.

"This might as well be juvenile hall," Ponyboy mumbled.

"Aw, Pony, don't say that," Soda said, his voice taking on a more soothing tone as he scooted next to his brother and draped an arm across Ponyboy's trembling shoulders. "At least we're together here. You know, not in separate cells, or in separate buildings or something."

Ponyboy eyed Soda cautiously. "Can't we at least try to go back? See if maybe things ended up different than we think they did?"

Sodapop sighed. "Look, kiddo, I can guarantee you that nothing is any different than we left it. The high school is the same. The teenagers in it are the same. There's nothing there that we haven't seen already. Our only chance out of this boys' home is this rodeo." He reached for the flyer and shook it a little bit. "I know I can do it."

"What makes you think Ms. Raber is going to let you enter?"

"She ain't gonna know about it," Soda replied with a wry smile. "Its tomorrow—Sunday—we'll just tell her that we're going to church and we'll head to the fairgrounds instead."

Ponyboy smiled too. "I guess it's better than nothing," he agreed.

"Now get some sleep, little man. Tomorrow is a brand new day." Soda smiled, moving back onto his bed, and then shimmied his way under the light covers. He padded at his pillow with a tight fist and then laid his head on it, closing his eyes.

Ponyboy sighed, then got up and pulled the bedroom door closed. He took off the jeans he was wearing, draped them over the foot of the bed, and then climbed under the covers. After turning off the small lamp on the bedside table, he curled up on his side, facing Soda's direction. He was far from convinced, but Dally noticed a sad hopelessness in his eyes that meant he was on board.

Dally kept watch over the youngest two Curtis brothers, sitting down in the corner by the windows. It didn't seem particularly late, but he could completely understand why they had opted for going to bed. It had to have been hell living under the same roof as dozens of other boys from disadvantaged homes. It had to have been terrible abiding by some stranger's rules and schedules. It certainly couldn't have been the same as kicking back with the gang back in the Tulsa they all knew. Dally was glad that, at some point, he would be able to leave this place—he couldn't leave soon enough—but he felt somewhat sorry for this Pony and Soda. How long had they been here? How long would they continue to be here if their rodeo scheme didn't work out?

Dallas rested his head against the wall behind him and closed his own eyes. Although he hadn't been at it long, the glimpses had really taken their toll. What was merely seconds back in the real world was turning into quite the little expedition.

Maybe a little sleep would be good for all of them.


	6. Phaeton's Ride

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you recognize.

_Author's note: Without giving too much away, the title of this chapter refers to the Greek myth of Helio's son (Phaeton). I couldn't think of anything else, and it just seemed too fitting not to use as the title. Check out the myth on Wikipedia to see what I mean... And thanks to everyone for waiting so patiently for this chapter... On with the story!_

* * *

The morning sun rose golden and bright in the eastern sky. As the lengthening rays poured in through the thin curtains, Dally groaned, stretching his legs to relieve his stiffening muscles. His back hurt—he had been slouched in the corner all night long—and he noticed, with a strange sense of reality, that the rumble had actually left him somewhat bruised and injured. Running a hand through his light hair, Dally's gaze shifted around the room. He half expected to be someplace else when he woke up, but he was strangely happy to see that he was still in the boys' home.

Ponyboy and Sodapop were still in their beds, sleeping and otherwise dead to the world. They looked so peaceful, comfortable even, that it was hard to tell that they were unhappy and wanting to be back at their _real_ home just the night before.

Dally sighed. He felt so helpless. He wanted to rush over and shake both of them awake—grab them by the shoulders and knock some sense into them—to get them out of the room that seemed smaller and even stuffier than it had earlier. He wanted to help them devise a way to get out on their own again, away from the rules and expectations of some unfamiliar adult. Keeping a teenaged boy—and a greaser no less—in one place for too long was like caging a wild animal. It wasn't natural… It wasn't fair.

But maybe that would all change. Today was the big day—the day of Sodapop's rodeo.

Dally sat silently for what seemed like hours. He watched as sun began to highlight each corner of the room around him. He studied the cracks in the ceiling and the tears in the wallpaper until he noticed movement in Soda's direction—he was waking up. Sitting propped up against the metal headboard, Sodapop rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood up, stretching his arms to the left and right of him, and walked over to his dresser, grabbing a clean pair of socks, jeans, and a flannel shirt from its drawers. After changing into his new clothes, he walked over to Ponyboy's bed, sitting down on the edge of it.

The old springs made a creaking sound and Ponyboy groggily rolled over. "What?" He mumbled, almost incoherently.

"Rise and shine," came the cheerful reply.

Ponyboy just looked up at Sodapop. "What time is it?" He asked quietly, rolling over and then burying his head underneath his pillow. He sounded like a little kid that didn't want to go to school. Dally remembered when he had pulled that same stunt with his old man. It never went over very well.

"It's time to get up," Soda replied flatly. "We gotta get going if we're gonna make Ms. Raber think we're heading to services."

Ponyboy grumbled, but slowly complied. In a few minutes he was dressed too and they were heading out of the room.

"I almost forgot," Soda announced suddenly before bounding back inside. He returned carrying a beat up looking cowboy hat. "I knew I didn't bring this hat for nothing…"

Ponyboy cracked a smile—his first one of the morning—and Sodapop draped an arm around him. "I can't ride without my lucky hat," Soda drawled, his voice soothing. Dally didn't remember Ponyboy being this needy before. He had never realized how much Ponyboy looked up to Soda, how much he _needed_ his brother to love and comfort him, and how much Soda had needed the same from Ponyboy. It was almost as if he was looking at the two of them through different eyes…

Soon, they were all on their way downstairs. Dally followed as they walked through the large sitting and game area that he had seen the night before and on towards another set of stairs at the back of the building. They took those to the ground level and were heading down a dimly lit hallway to a set of exit doors when a voice called out behind them.

"Just where to do you two think you're going?"

Soda turned to face a short, stout woman with gray hair and tired green eyes. She had her hands on her hips and she didn't look happy to see two of her charges heading toward the exit unsupervised. "Howdy Ma'am," Soda replied. "We're just on our way to Sunday services…"

"If that's okay with you," Ponyboy added quickly, his voice innocent and even.

She eyed them suspiciously. It seemed that she knew better than to trust the likes of Ponyboy and Sodapop Curtis, especially when they were in cahoots. "I suppose there's no harm in that," she said with a small smile. "I'm not sure if you boys have heard, but there's a rodeo in town today and I don't want you two caught up in that mess… Please come back as soon as the good Father at St. Christopher's has finished saying mass."

Soda nodded. "Of course, Ms. Raber," he said smoothly. "We'll say a prayer for you and the other boys too."

Ms. Raber smiled, this time her tired green eyes twinkled happily. Dally couldn't believe that she had fallen for Soda's little act. "Why, thank you, Sodapop. I appreciate that…" She said.

Soda smiled, giving her a little nod with the brim of his hat and then turned toward the door. He grabbed Ponyboy by the arm and they both headed outside. Once out on the street, Soda laughed loudly and looked at his little brother. "How about that? Didn't I tell you getting Ms. Raber to let us go out would be a piece of cake?"

Ponyboy still looked slightly unconvinced. "Just wait until we don't come back in an hour. She'll send someone out looking for us…"

"Aw, Pony," Soda sighed. "You worry too much. You're getting to be just like Darry…"

Dally followed the two of them down the street, listening in to their conversations. Ponyboy did seem to be a little less carefree and more concerned about everything lately. But maybe he had a right to be concerned. There was no telling what an old lady like Ms. Raber would do if two of her wards turned up missing after a Sunday morning mass…

Dally pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it as they walked. The sun was bright and warm, and after spending the night in the boys' home, it was surprisingly nice to be free again. It was like getting out of jail or something.

As soon as they entered the fairgrounds, Soda approached the sign in table and waited in line with a group of other rodeo hopefuls. When it was his turn, he stepped forward and filled out the necessary paperwork, then handed it to the woman that was helping him.

"Call is at 12:30," she said routinely, not even looking up as she fiddled with his papers. "Riders begin numerically at 1:00. Good luck to you, son." She handed over his contestant vest and riding number.

Soda grinned. "Thank you, ma'am," he replied. "Luck from a pretty lady never hurt no one."

The woman looked up at him, catching his gaze, and eyed him strangely. A small smile crept across her softly lined face. She was probably old enough to be his mother.

_Old broads never seem to mind flirting from younger guys_, Dally thought to himself as he looked on. _Makes them feel all girlish and giddy again_.

No matter where he was, Soda had always been one to sweet talk some lucky girl—his boyish good looks and contagious smile had never held him back when women were concerned. Back in Tulsa, Dallas was always happy to have him around. Whenever they'd go out with Steve or the other boys, they never had any trouble picking up girls. Dally knew that _his_ looks certainly hadn't attracted any prospective dates. _Get Sodapop to reel 'em in and let your tuff attitude take over from there_—that was his dating philosophy. Even with a cute guy right there, no greasy girl could resist a tough as nails hood like Dallas Winston… His reputation had gotten him many things, and action with the opposite sex was one of perks that he had thoroughly enjoyed.

Sodapop stepped away from the table holding his vest and number and then walked over to Ponyboy. "I'm all set," he said happily, removing the cowboy hat from his head and placing it on Ponyboy's. "Now we wait. It won't be long now."

Pony adjusted the hat so that it wasn't falling in his face and looked over at Soda who was adjusting his vest.

"Excited for the big ride today?"

Dally was caught slightly off guard. The voice hadn't made an appearance since he nearly lost it at the boys' home the night before. "I guess," he replied, trying to sound uninterested.

"Good, because I'm excited… That Sodapop Curtis has turned into something of the risk taker. He's a fun one to watch nowadays…" The voice said.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Dally asked flatly, figuring an explanation of some sort was on the horizon. He wasn't quite sure if he even wanted to hear it. He looked over at Soda who had taken the hat back from Ponyboy and was tossing it up in the air, trying to catch it with his head. It seemed that each one of his friends had been worse off in this strange reality—and he hoped that things wouldn't be the same for Soda.

"The Sodapop you knew always looked for action—drag races, fights, girls—and that certainly didn't diminish with your absence. If anything, he's even more reckless now. Almost to a fault. Even though he still tragically lost his parents, that hasn't translated over to his own self image. You see, Dallas, Sodapop doesn't see that he's mortal, that he can be hurt, and that the events going around him actually have an effect on other people, like Ponyboy for instance."

"So he didn't have me around… Big deal," Dally replied. "He still had his brothers to ground him a little. He still had the gang."

"What gang?" The voice scoffed. "Did you forget that Steve does his own thing now, that Two-Bit is usually in jail or off drinking or brooding somewhere? Soda doesn't have the gang that was familiar to you. He doesn't have the same group of guys to lean on and learn from and share experiences with… It may be hard for you to see, Dallas, but your absence set off an entire chain reaction. You can't pin point one thing you did for Soda to make him who he was. It was the lack of many things that brought him to where he is right now."

Dally rolled his eyes. "The Soda I knew would have taken the exact same risks. He would have entered this rodeo too… He would have done anything to try and make a better life for his little brother."

"Maybe so, but you'll see how careless decisions only make things worse. You, of all people, should be able to understand _that _concept," the voice replied.

Dallas could feel himself getting angry again. Was the voice implying that his decisions back in Tulsa had been careless? That was a load of crap! Maybe they weren't thought out completely and meticulously analyzed, but his decisions were definitely not careless. And they had definitely not, nor would they ever, make things worse for anyone.

"If there's one thing you've showed me, it's that these glimpses aren't about me," Dally hissed, trying to turn the attention away from himself. "I'm not the one riding in this rodeo today—Soda is—so let's not forget that… Okay?"

The voice seemed to chuckle a little bit. "Okay, Dallas… Maybe you are catching on after all."

Dally ignored the comment. He didn't want to be praised over something that he didn't believe in. Was he really catching on? He sure didn't think so. He just didn't like fingers pointing at him. He turned his attention back to the Curtis brothers, hoping the voice would leave him alone.

"You and me, little brother," Soda was saying as he ruffled Ponyboy's short hair. "We're gonna be out of this town in no time."

Ponyboy met his brother's gaze and looked at him nervously. "Well, you be careful out there," he said. "Darry'd kill you if he knew you were doing this."

Soda laughed. "Heck. Ms. Raber would kill me too… But she don't know either!"

Ponyboy made a face. Dally couldn't tell if it was fear for his brother, worry, or something else altogether. He sure looked young though—like a kid without anyplace to go. The look in his eyes was very similar to when he and Johnny had come to Buck's that night, looking for advice.

"I'll be down in front," Pony said, hesitation evident in his voice. "I'll see you when your ride is over."

Soda nodded and pulled this brim of his cowboy hat down slightly, a gesture that the hero of an old west movie would do for a pretty lady. Then he turned and strutted over toward the group of contenders that were gathering on the other side of the grounds. Ponyboy watched him walk away and then, once Soda had disappeared into the crowd, headed in the other direction.

Dallas followed Ponyboy to the first row of the bleachers and leaned up against the railing that separated the spectators from the participants down on the arena floor. He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and hastily lit it up as he took a look around.

The whole place was full and surging with adrenaline and testosterone. It seemed as if all of the cowboys from the Midwest had gathered at the county fairgrounds, and all the residents of Omaha had come out to see them. Men and boys were milling around on the sidelines, bragging about themselves to one another, each one thinking that he deserved the amateur title more than the next guy. Dally took a long drag from his cigarette. For some reason he was all keyed up—and he wasn't even riding today—maybe it was the unseen presence of the voice that had gotten to him. He looked over at Ponyboy who was nervously rubbing his hands together and then shoving them in the pockets of his oversized sweatshirt. He seemed to be nervous too.

Dally thought for a moment. Back in Tulsa, Sodapop had been a good rider. He could handle the broncos and keep up with the best… Certainly there was nothing to worry about.

He looked on from his spot down in front as the contest kicked into gear. With each number that was called, a rider took his turn. Some hadn't been so good, some had even been disqualified for failing to meet their eight second requirement, but most were taking in high marks—anything from eighties to eighty-eights, one guy even scored a ninety-one. It would be tough for Sodapop to compete, even if he had been practicing at the stables where he worked.

"Next up, number sixty-six, Sodapop Curtis." The contest announcer read to the crowd.

Taken by surprise, Dallas turned his attention to the commotion at the far end of the arena. Ponyboy made a small nervous sound in his throat, his eyes glued to the same place as Dally's—the gate where Soda was mounting his horse.

A single shot rang out and the gate flung open as the horse carrying Soda wildly bucked out into everyone's view. Sodapop spurred the horse, his free arm reaching towards the sky, before the animal's front feet hit the ground.

One second, two…

The ride continued as the horse threw its body weight around, charging farther out into the ring for all to see. Soda anticipated each movement, fluidly riding and spurring in synchronicity with each powerful buck of the bronco. A smile was evident on his face, and even from far away no one could deny that he was enjoying himself. He was living it up. His plan was in motion and he was doing a pretty good job so far.

Three seconds… Four…

Dally gripped the railing in front of him with both hands, leaning forward as if it would give him a better view of the action taking place in the dusty ring. He glanced over at Ponyboy.

"Come on, Soda," the younger boy muttered to himself. "Come on, now."

Five seconds…

Dally turned back towards Soda's ride and watched as the horse bucked violently, this time catching Sodapop slightly off guard.

Six seconds…

Soda's free arm, which had been so steady merely moments before, jerked back in an effort to regain some of the balance he once had. Spurring again, this time rather shakily, Sodapop completely lost his center of gravity and was thrown up into the air, his other hand pried loose from its tight grip on the hack rein.

Seven seconds…

With nothing else to grab on to, Sodapop was seemingly launched from the bronco's arched back like a pebble through a child's sling shot. The toes of his boots pointed up towards the sky as his body crashed down to earth.

Eight seconds…

Dally felt his skin turn cold and his stomach start to churn. Soda had hit the ground hard and was lying at an odd angle. Twisted and on his side, he wasn't moving. In fact, it was hard to see if he was _breathing_ or not. Filled with such vibrancy only seconds before, a split second in time had reduced to a feeble lump on the dusty ground.

Without thinking, Dally hopped over the short wall that separated himself from the main ring and ran hard, his feet pounding the ground with each stride. He could hear Ponyboy shouting out behind him, apparently being caught up by a security officer that had stepped forward during Sodapop's brief ride to make sure that the crowd was under control.

"You don't understand… That's my brother!" Ponyboy yelped. Dally felt his stomach sink farther toward his running feet as continued on his way. Pony had never seemed that young before back in Tulsa, or that helpless. Today, he had acted and sounded just like a child—a child without parents, a child without a path to follow, a child without a future…

As he ran, Dally got the feeling that Soda and Ponyboy wouldn't be traveling on any rodeo circuits anytime soon. With a spill like the one Sodapop had just taken, they might not be traveling anywhere together for a long time…

Dallas had sprinted halfway across the ring, when he heard the buzzing of the overhead lights. "No! Not now!" He yelled out, knowing the voice could hear him and that this glimpse was close to ending.

Only twenty more feet to go… Sodapop was right there. With each new step, the ground seemed increasingly unsteady and the stands that were built up on either side of the main arena began to spin around him. "Don't you _dare_!" Dally hissed. "This isn't over yet! I'm not finished here!"

He was so close. He had to make sure that Soda was okay, that things would be all right in the end.

But the voice had other plans.

As quickly and abruptly as it had begun, the glimpse ended, throwing Dallas into another cyclone of motion. Dally tried to fight it, continuing to run his hardest amid the flurry of activity around him. Eventually realizing that he wasn't actually going anywhere, he slumped to the ground, defeated.

"Damn you!" He shouted angrily, pounding the earth hard with his fist. "I wasn't finished! I wasn't done there you son of a bitch!"

Met with darkness and silence, Dallas furiously waited for the spinning to subside.


	7. Tough Like Me

Disclaimer: As you probably know by now, I do not own _The Outsiders_. I can, however, take credit for the disembodied voice that is currently pissing Dallas off, but that's about it.

* * *

"Enough with the spinning!" Dally shouted. "That's it! I've had enough! I'm ready to go back!"

"But you still haven't seen everything," the voice replied calmly.

Drawing a shaky breath into his lungs, Dallas ran his shaky fingers through his hair and then held his head in his hands. As far as he was concerned, he had seen everything that he had wanted to see—and then some.

He had seen Steve, and Two-Bit, and Darry, Ponyboy, and Sodapop as they would have been without him… And he didn't like it. It made their real lives seem like pieces of cake—and things had never been easy for any of them. He couldn't quite figure out if there was truth to everything the voice had shown him and if the glimpses that he was having were really alternate scenarios—or maybe the voice had made it all up to confuse him in his final moments.

It was hard for him to wrap his mind around it.

The one thing Dally did know, however, was that he hadn't seen Johnny yet—and after all that he had been through so far, he intended on keeping it that way. Having seen Johnny die before his run-in with the cops, and then having the mysterious voice intervene at the vacant lot, was more than he could stand… He couldn't imagine seeing anything worse play before his eyes like some bad movie of the week. That was one ghost from his past that he just couldn't take it. He didn't want to.

"I want to go back," Dally repeated, his voice beginning to sound more controlled than irate.

"Would it make a difference if I told you that Sodapop was okay after his fall?" The voice baited. "That he was only knocked unconscious for a moment and ended up with a concussion?"

Soda's fate weighed in on Dally's mind and he could feel the rage building up again. _Only_ _knocked unconscious?_ _How dare this unseen asshole lessen Soda's injuries to only this or only that_.

"No! It wouldn't make a damned bit of difference!" Dally yelled angrily as he jumped to his feet and stared up at the stars that were blazing brightly in the night sky. "I told you… I'm finished here. Bring me back to the lot! Bring me back to the streetlight!"

There was an audible sigh of compliance from above as the world started spinning again, although not as violently as before. Content that things were finally coming to a close, and that he could get on with the last seconds of his miserable life, Dally smiled and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

By the time he pulled one out, he was under the streetlight again, but something was definitely amiss. There wasn't a cop car in sight and the sky was bright, yet gray and overcast, ready to pour down buckets of rain at any moment. There were darker storm clouds brewing in the west and pieces of garbage and debris from the abandoned lot were starting to kick up, forming miniature cyclones in the growing breeze.

"What the…" Dallas began dumbly as he turned around to take in his surroundings, his anger quickly replaced with confusion. He was in the right place, just not the right time…

"One more glimpse to go, Dallas," the voice said smugly, breaking the silence of the cool Tulsa afternoon. "You didn't think I'd let you off the hook that easily, did you? You still haven't learned the full extent of your impact in Tulsa."

Dally sighed, irritated, and put the cigarette to his lips. He narrowed his eyes and surveyed the area once more, this time more closely, as he dug in his pocket for a match. If he was going to withstand another strange reality, then he was going to do it his way—whatever the voice had in store this time, was going to have to come to him.

Dally fumbled with the lighted match, guarding it closely with his left hand as he brought it to the end of the cigarette. Puffing to get the fire going, Dally made himself comfortable and leaned against the tall lamp post, figuring it would be a while before anything of interest happened.

His light eyes focused on the impending storm, watching the dark clouds roll swiftly over the row of beaten down houses. He flipped the collar of his jacket up, shielding his face slightly from the breeze that was steadily growing into a gusty wind and hunched his shoulders in an effort to protect his still smoldering cigarette. When the fiery end barely touched his fingertips, Dallas dropped what was left of the butt and crushed it with the toe of his boot. His eyes followed the movement of his foot, and he noticed the first of the raindrops hitting the dusty patch of dirt below him. Soon, others followed and the dry, muted ground became darker in color as it sucked up each precious drop of water.

Looking up again, Dallas shivered as blond hair blew in his face, and moistened from the rain, stuck across his forehead and partially in his eyes. Brushing it away, and without a second thought, Dally made his way out of the lot and toward one of the houses across the street. The porch there would provide good shelter from the coming storm, and he would in no way be helping the voice with its mission if he stood on it for a while.

Focused on his destination, Dally quickened his gait and trotted toward the house. Had he been in the real world, he would have collided with another boy, also running to find shelter from the rain that was dropping more forcefully now.

Startled, Dallas stopped in his tracks and eyed the stranger as he passed.

Johnny?

It couldn't be…

But it was.

Unable to help himself, and despite his better judgment, Dally followed. Deep down he knew that he was playing right into the voice's hands, like some helpless puppet, but he didn't care. He felt as if he had been without his friend for forever, even if it had only been hours—or was it less?—since he had been with him in the hospital room. Even so, Dally wasn't sure how he felt about seeing Johnny again, alive and well. This strange Tulsa hadn't treated his other friends kindly, and he hoped with what little faith he had left, that things would actually be better for Johnny in this reality. Johnny certainly would have been alive if he hadn't gone to that stupid church in Windrixville…

Realizing that he had been breathing strangely—the way he breathed when he got all worked up before a rumble—Dally held the air in his lungs for a moment. Finally exhaling, once he felt like he had control again, he studied Johnny more closely. In terms of appearance, he seemed the same as he did back home—he wore the same beaten jean jacket and faded tee-shirt, and had the same long, greasy black hair with shaggy bangs that blocked out his dark eyes. But there was still something unusual about him. Instead of looking sad and defeated, this Johnny walked with purpose. He didn't look scared of anything and his eyes reflected something much different than fear.

Dally couldn't quite place it…

Both boys ran through the rain, their clothes thoroughly soaked by the time they reached a familiar house. Dally knew it well, it was his other home—the place he crashed if he didn't feel like dealing with the Curtises or the rest of the gang—Shepard's place. He climbed the stairs to the front door and followed Johnny inside.

"Tim!" Johnny called out from the middle of the living room, his voice even and confident—the complete opposite of his usual mousy demeanor.

After a couple minutes, Tim appeared from the hallway that led from the home's two downstairs bedrooms. "Johnny?" He asked groggily. It looked like he had been roused from a deep sleep, or was recovering from a hangover—maybe both—one could never tell. "I didn't expect to see you so soon."

Johnny coolly leaned against the wall and put a cigarette to his lips. He smiled a strange, crooked smile that Dally hadn't seen before, and hitched a thumb in his belt loop. "Yeah? Well, let's just say that boys at the station recommended my release. Even they realized that the guy I knifed had it coming…"

Dallas could feel his heart slowly sinking in his chest. It was the same feeling he had as he ran toward Sodapop at the rodeo, but it was a million times worse. _No, Johnny. Not jail._ He had told Johnny all about jail, and how it wasn't a place that he should ever arrange to visit…

"Well, I'm happy to have you back, man," Tim replied, extending a hand, which Johnny took and shook firmly. "I've been having some problems with some of the new guys lately…"

Johnny shook his head, snickering to himself. "Stupid kids," he muttered under his breath.

Tim continued. "They've got no respect for me or my gang, man. They think it's a game or something… This rivalry with the Socs. They keep starting fights at school, getting them all riled up, and now they're on our turf every night causing all sorts of shit. You know I like a good fight as much as the next guy, but I'm getting sick of fixing slashed tires and broken windows all the time. I ain't made of money! It's a pain in the ass."

Johnny just sighed. He looked irritated—or maybe disappointed—Dally couldn't tell which it was. "Then you need to do something about it," Johnny replied, his voice low and somewhat menacing. "You're the boss around here, Timmy 'ole boy. Don't let them forget it… Your men or those Socs."

Tim shrugged. "But it ain't easy without you around," he protested. "Your reputation is the best way to scare my guys into shape… And scare those Socs. clear away."

Johnny smirked and blew out a long puff of smoke. "I'm glad someone appreciates all the work I've put into my rep. My folks sure don't…"

"What parents do?" Tim asked. "It ain't easy being a hood…"

Johnny thought for a second and then snickered again. "Hell, Tim. Sure it is! Ripping off corner stores, stealing cars, picking up broads, jumping old ladies… There ain't nothing easier than that!"

The edge in Johnny's voice made Dally uneasy and he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Johnny was a nice kid, a good kid, and he certainly wouldn't be the type to help Shepard run the old neighborhood.

Tim smiled. "There'll be time for all of that too, man. But first things first, we've got some boys that need a schooling."

Johnny smiled too, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and his eyes twinkling strangely, as he nonchalantly cracked the knuckles on both hands. "It'd be my pleasure. Three months without action is three months too long… Let's get started."

"Let me get some shoes," Tim replied, rushing out of the room.

Johnny plucked the cigarette from his mouth and ground the lit edge into the arm of a nearby couch. When Tim appeared, Johnny swung the front door open, letting Tim pass through, and they both headed out of the house.

Dally followed, the sound of Tim Shepard's front door slamming shut being drowned out by the loud noises within the storm. He watched Johnny head down the porch stairs and studied every single movement. Instead of slow lope, Johnny now sauntered—strutted—his way down the street like some feral cat. He looked completely comfortable walking alongside Tim Shepard—he almost seemed like his equal, not like some broken little kid that got abused by his parents. His eyes were stern and cold, focused on some unknown point in the distance as he walked through the pouring rain.

But there was something else in his eyes too. Something so familiar and yet foreign at the same time…

Dally thought as he gazed at his friend. Then it dawned on him.

Coiling back in horror, adrenaline pumping steadily through his veins, Dally placed it. How could he have missed it before? The thing in Johnny's eyes, the emotion that he couldn't quite figure out earlier, was finally evident to him. It was hatred—pure, unadulterated hatred for the world and all those living in it. Johnny's compassionate, caring eyes had been replaced with dark, black pits of hatred—pits not dissimilar to those that Dally had.

It was like looking in a mirror.

"No! Not Johnny!" Dally yelled out, frozen in place and feeling dizzy despite his best efforts. It was almost more than he could take. The memory of seeing Johnny die before his eyes was surely better than this.

Needing something to calm himself down, Dally pulled the pack of Kools from his pocket and tapped the side of it. None fell out. _Damn, no more cigarettes!_ He held the small box in his hand and squeezed tightly, crushing it with all his might and tossing it aside.

"God, damn it all!" He shouted at the top of his voice, watching as Johnny and Tim strolled their way towards whatever trouble they were planning. "It's not supposed to be like this! Not Johnnycake… Not him too…"

Dallas sighed, collapsing to the cold, wet ground. And as he felt the tears welling up behind his eyelids, a bright streak of lightening flashed across the sky and he was left alone in unfriendly darkness.


	8. Seeing the Light

Disclaimer: For the last time in this story, I do not own _The Outsiders_.

* * *

"Not Johnny… Not Johnny…" He muttered into space, over and over without really hearing the words leave his mouth. "Not him too. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Not Johnny…"

Dallas Winston sat, slumped on the dying grass beneath him, his voice breaking the silence of the frozen vacant lot. He was tired—emotionally drained—and he felt as if he hadn't slept in years. The cold hand of death would be grasping at him soon enough, firm and unforgiving. But even that didn't matter anymore.

It never mattered.

Johnny…

_Glory… Why did it have to be this way?_ Dallas wondered.

The image of Johnny, cold and mean stalking along next to Tim Shepard, was burned into his brain. The hollow look in his friend's eyes was a permanent fixture now, dancing through his restless thoughts as he sat under the glow of the lone streetlight. It seemed like ages since he had been in this very spot, at this very time. But how long had he been away from the real world? Seconds? Tenths of seconds? It certainly couldn't have been much longer than that.

But things were so different now. The world was not the same place that it used to be. Moments ago, the worst thing that had ever happened to Dally was seeing Johnny die. Now, it was seeing Johnny _alive_, living and thriving as another delinquent. A tough little piece of shit just like him, with an equal—if not more impressive—reputation.

Dallas closed his eyes and tried to push the thought out of his mind. He was prepared to give up his life, to end everything, because Johnny had gone before him. Damn it all if he couldn't wipe the grim reality of that last glimpse out of his head.

Johnny wasn't that thug that he kept seeing in his jumbled thoughts. Johnny was a quiet kid. A good kid. A kid that risked his life—and eventually lost it—to save a bunch of pre-schoolers. Johnny was a real hero. He deserved the moniker that the paper gave him. He deserved to be honored and remembered. He deserved to have a quick flash of glory before he left the cold, cruel world behind.

Dally twisted a crumpled blade of grass between his fingers. He watched it intently, bending it to his will and, finally, tearing it apart when he was bored with it. It was so nice to have control over something again, even if it was only a blade of grass. For once during his strange trip, he was in charge again. He could call the shots and do as he pleased. For once, the voice wasn't trying to interfere and stop him. Maybe it realized just how far the glimpses had pushed him—just how close he was to actually breaking.

Dallas drew in a quivering breath and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Tears that he had successfully contained dribbled down his rough skin, finally released from their icy blue prisons.

He didn't like crying. He remembered how, even as a little kid, he had refrained from doing it.

When his mother called him a worthless little brat… He held it in.

When, Rusty, the leader of the guys that he ran with was gunned down by a rival gang… He held it in.

When he spent his first night scared, and alone, in a New York City jail cell… He held it in.

When he got sent away to live with his old man… He held it in.

When his old man grew tired of his presence and made it his daily routine to pound him… He held it in.

When Johnny turned up in the lot, beaten to a pulp by some Socs… He held it in.

But when Johnny died in front of him, Dally just couldn't do it anymore. The tears came naturally then, almost too easily, he had noticed. Even with Ponyboy standing across the room, wide-eyed and bewildered, he had no problem releasing the tears that had ached to flow freely for a long, long time.

_Johnny… _

The one thing that he loved about the world was gone and the great Dallas Winston was going to god damn cry if he wanted!

No one was going to stop him!

Dally glanced up through narrowed eyes, finally becoming fully aware that he was back where he started. The eerie blue and red of the police flashers was shining into the distance, illuminating everything in a surreal, almost otherworldly, glow. The bullets, shimmering like large, hovering raindrops above him, were holding their position. About a foot away on the ground was his gun, right where he left it when the voice propositioned him earlier that night.

Reaching for it, Dally made eye contact—albeit unreturned—with the friends that he had just seen. All five of them—Steve, Two-Bit, Darry, Sodapop, and Ponyboy—were running as fast as they could, trying their hardest to reach him in time. How would they react when it finally happened, when his life finally ended?

_They all knew I'd die violently like this, sooner or later_, Dally thought bitterly. His lifestyle had always been anything but safe. He reckoned that he was too dangerous to really be their friend, that he was nothing but a bad example for the rest of the guys. The voice had alluded to that many times, and besides, he could see it in the way they all acted around him. He could see it in their eyes. Every now and again, before he'd head out to the Nightly Double or some other greaser hang-out with some of the guys, he would catch Darry giving Ponyboy a look that said: "Now don't you go out there and end up like old Dally. He's not like the rest of us. He's tougher, colder, meaner… And I ain't gonna have any of _that_ in my house."

Dallas didn't blame them, really. After all, that was the person he tried to be. That was the person he _was_. He couldn't act any different.

Slowly, Dally wrapped his trembling fingers around the gun and brought it toward him. He looked away from his friends, and studied the gun intently instead. He pointed the short barrel toward the darkened sky and then gently rest it against his forehead, thinking about what he was planning to do. The metal was cold and clammy against his skin, damp from sitting in the grassy lot.

So this was it. This was how he was going to end it all—with an unloaded gun.

Dally pulled his feet underneath him and raised himself up off of the ground. Shakily, he regained his balance and stood beneath the streetlight once again. He drew the gun away from his body, pointing it at the cops and sighed. Closing his blue eyes tightly, he waited for time to start running again.

He stood, ready, in that position for a long time.

Nothing happened.

"Come on now!" Dallas shouted, his right arm falling to his side as his eyes opened again and blazed with both frustration and anger. "I'm ready! Let's get this show on the road!"

Silence. Even the crickets were frozen in this strange space between life and death.

"Where are you!" He shouted, his voice getting louder with each word. "What?" He taunted after no reply. "Have you finally realized that I'm not worth your time? Have you moved on to bigger and better things? To bother someone else?"

Dallas waited again for a reply, grunting his displeasure at being ignored.

"What could be bigger or better than you?" The voice replied sarcastically, breaking the stillness of the cool night air.

"Very funny," Dally muttered. He felt strangely happy that the voice hadn't forgotten him after all—that things _would_ be ending soon. He'd be out of here.

"So," the voice began sternly. "You're ready to leave these glimpses behind, are you?"

Dally made a snorting sound. His joy at hearing the voice again was quickly replaced with contempt. That damn entity had a way of making him angry. Of course he was ready! Hadn't the dumbass listened to his complaining at all? He had been ready five glimpses ago!

Sensing his displeasure, the voice pressed on with an explanation. "I can't let time begin again until I am certain you've learned from the things that I've shown you. You have to understand that you made a difference in the world before I send you back to it. It's part of the deal."

Dally threw his arms up in the air and ran a hand through his hair. "God damn… When is this nightmare going to end?" He mumbled.

The voice didn't miss a beat. "It'll end when you're ready for it to end."

"I _am _ready," Dally hissed through clenched teeth. "I saw more than I intended on seeing and now I'm ready for this bullet to finally hit me." He motioned to the small speck of silver that was frozen in front of him.

"But do you realize you contributed? That your purpose for coming to Tulsa in the first place was great?"

"Yeah, it was great alright," Dally said under his breath. "It was a great waste of time."

"I know you don't truly believe that," the voice chimed in.

"Believe what?" Dally asked, irritated.

"That your time in Tulsa was for nothing," the voice replied. "On the contrary, your time in Tulsa held incredible purpose."

"Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants," Dally mocked, rolling his eyes. "You tell me. What difference would it have made if I didn't come to Tulsa at all?"

"Well," the voice began smugly. "You saw it all yourself. For starters, without you, Steve and Darry were alone, Two-Bit was without his sense of humor, and Ponyboy and Sodapop were lost in a world where, while brotherhood counts for something, it doesn't help to alleviate the problems of everyday life… Those boys needed you, Dallas. In one way or another, they needed you to help them become who they were, to truly sense the goodness that the world had to offer."

"Bullshit," Dally mumbled quietly, feeling miserable. He hadn't been expecting the voice to spell it out for him like he was some idiot. He knew that, deep down, he was starting to get the point of everything, starting to see what the voice had been telling him all along. But he'd be lying if he said it was all easy to swallow. It was all too overwhelming.

The voice continued. "And what about Johnny? Before we met, you saw him die, Dallas, and that was tragic enough to bring you to this streetlight… Yet wouldn't it have been worse if he was hardened beyond recognition? If he was just another hood from the street? Just another tough kid like yourself?"

Dally sighed heavily, wiping at the new tears that were beginning to sting at his eyes. At least that part was true. Johnny was the one person that he had ever cared about, the one person that he wanted to shield from the evil world that he, himself, faced on a day to day basis. Johnny deserved better. As much as it pained him to think of it, a hero's death was a more suitable ending for Johnny than what he had just witnessed in his last glimpse.

He, Dallas, was the only one who deserved to die a hood.

"It's okay to see the light, Dallas," the voice said soothingly. "It's okay to realize that you were wrong. That you did make a difference in some tangible way to those around you…"

Dally stared intently at the ground. He was beginning to feel it, beginning to truly understand, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it. It was almost like admitting defeat. Almost like saying his entire existence—of being angry at his parents, at the Socs., at authority, at the world—was all for nothing. That he could have been happy. Things could have been different if he hadn't toughened himself beyond caring.

"I know you understand now," the voice pressed on. "I can sense it. You were a good kid, Dallas. Even _you_ don't deserve to leave the world this way."

Dally bit at his bottom lip. He looked around the lot at the stationary police lights, the bullets frozen in midair, and his friends running toward him. How would they feel once he was gone? Would they even care? Would they ever give him a second thought once he was dead and buried?

"I'm ready," Dally said quietly. He paused for a moment, and then added: "Thanks for giving me this chance to know how it would have been—you know… Without me."

"You're welcome," the voice replied cheerily. It sounded odd echoing through the still night air, considering what was about to take place. "I knew you'd come around."

Dally sighed and wiped his eyes with his free hand one final time. He wasn't sure when it had started, but tears were flowing down his cheeks quite easily now. When he was confident that he had put a stop to it, Dally took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and then studied the looks on the policemen's faces less than fifty feet away from him.

_Time for the showdown_, Dally thought as he held the gun out at an arm's length again, bracing himself for the impact that was sure to follow. _There's no turning back now._

In a matter of moments, the streetlight above Dallas began to buzz while a jumble of noises—pops from gunfire, angry shouts, and desperate wails—began to penetrate his eardrums. It all sounded like a distorted record, speeding up as if it were trying to change tempo mid-song, despite the player's best efforts to keep it as it was.

Instinctively, Dally knew that his time was coming. He could feel it. Things were starting to happen again. Soon—even if only for a _very_ short time—he would be back in the real world. The same old Tulsa he had once called home.

Dally blinked slowly as time fell away and the world finally caught up with him. In an instant, the sounds were loud and banging in his ears, and he felt an intense pain—like fiery ice—hit him in the chest and then shoot throughout his body. So this was how it felt to be shot…

Jerked around by the impact, his fading vision caught one last glimpse of the gang who were now in motion behind him. He made brief eye contact with Ponyboy, and tried to reason out if things would be okay now, with him out of their hair. For a split second he wondered, unselfishly he realized, if Ponyboy would be able to bounce back from losing two of his friends in a single night.

He hoped so. Pony, like Johnny, was always a good kid.

Slowly, Dallas felt his body giving way, stiffening up, and complying with gravity's will. And as he fell to the ground, drawing a final breath of air and closing his icy eyes for the last time, a strange and rare smile crept across his pale purpling lips.

In those last seconds—or tenths of seconds—time didn't matter anymore, Dally felt a sense of contentment and grim triumph unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

Maybe things _had_ been better in Tulsa because he was around.

Maybe the voice was right all along.

Maybe there was some good in the world after all, and he had had a small part in it.


End file.
